


Black Magic Woman

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, F/M, Light BDSM, Multi, Nudity, Seduction, Spy Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: a.k.a.Five Times the Black Widow Found Seduction Useful for a Mission (And the First Time She Used it for Herself)
Relationships: Georges Batroc/Natasha Romanov, Loki/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov/Councilwoman Hawley, Natasha Romanov/OMC, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	1. Icing Ivan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



The mark’s name was Ivan. It seemed like they were always named Ivan on these mafia jobs. Ivans ranged from your slick, suit-wearing power CEOs right down to the lowliest of bag men. This Ivan was somewhere in the middle. He didn’t look like much more than your usual blue collar worker. He wore worn denims, sturdy boots, and a leather jacket that had seen better days, but first glances could be deceiving. His hair, slicked down to his skull, was held in place with a pricey pomade that some of the CEOs would envy. The plain watch with its leather band was made by Bvlgari. The boots, however scuffed, were made by a company that specialized in top of the line footwear.

And the guns holstered beneath that leather jacket certainly weren’t anything to sneer at.

This Ivan was the kind that took a very particular type of job— the kind where the work was wet and the pay was high. Death was his business, and for many years business had been good. Even the best can get cocky, though, and when they start getting cocky there’s a clock somewhere that starts ticking backwards. Ivan’s clock had been ticking backwards for a good long while, and he’d finally made the wrong demand of the wrong person. Unfortunately for Ivan, the wrong person had the right connections. The connections had bought her time to make Ivan’s clock come to a stop.

Natasha Romanov had been casing Ivan for three days. She knew his every move, his every routine, and— of course— his every weakness. Ivan loved his cigars, his vodka, and his women in no particular order. He liked the cigars expensive, the vodka cheap, and women wild enough not to care where they fell on the price range in between. All that made Ivan what Natasha liked to call easy pickings.

A lifetime in Russia kept her warm even beneath the inadequate leather and mesh of her outfit. Her boots were shiny, reaching up the length of her legs to the pale skin of her thighs. She wore net stockings beneath them that disappeared beneath a red leather skirt just barely long enough to cover her assets. The top she wore above it was mesh beneath a cropped fur-trimmed jacket. The brilliant white blonde of her wig fell just to her chin in a straight bob cut, and the make-up on her eyes was dark and smokey. She’d gone to great pains to make herself exactly Ivan’s type. The dress-up game was half the fun.

Catching his eye was effortless. All she had to do was walk into the bar. The cold blowing in from outside drew the eye of everyone in the room— some out of irritation that the heat was being let out, others out of curiosity for who could possibly be coming in when all the regulars were already in their seats. Her outfit and the artfully smeared mascara beneath her eyes kept the gazes of quite a few, most especially her target. She sniffled as she stomped up to the bar, appearing for all the world like she hadn’t looked at a single person since she crossed the threshold. The goal was to appeal to Ivan’s horrible habit of playing the white knight. It worked flawlessly. She’d barely finished choking out her drink order— “vodka, whatever’s cheapest” — before he was sliding to her side and asking the bartender to put the drink on his own tab. 

She delivered the cover story with practiced ease. She’d been on a date. Her date had done her wrong. The bruises on her cheek, acquired as they were in a bar fight she’d initiated on the other side of the city before she’d come to Ivan’s usual haunt, said more about the tale than she ever did. He was on her like the snows on the streets, offering to take care of her errant date and see her safely home. She declined the offer of violence, reassuring him that she’d rather have his company instead. He was easy to maneuver after that, putty in her hands as he dried her tears with a bar napkin and bought her shot after shot of the vodka.

They barely made it as far as the alleyway two buildings over before he was on her. Natasha let him pin her to the wall, his lips muttering wishes and phrases into the hollow of her throat. She arched her back, pushing away from the wall while he palmed at her backside and lifted her up the length of his body. The timing had to be precise, the angle just right. He shifted to bury his face between her breasts, the rough shadow of the day’s beard growth scratching against her skin, and placed himself in the exact perfect position. Natasha moved. Ivan’s head cracked against the corner of the dumpster across the alley, the impact snapping the delicate bones of his neck.

She landed on her feet as he crumpled into an undignified heap, and turned to walk out of the alley. There was no overhead light, and the corner of the building kept the body in shadow. By the time someone found him in the morning she’d be on the other side of the country.


	2. More Flies with Honey

Things were done differently in S.H.I.E.L.D. The agency was a collaborative effort with multiple countries, but they had a decidedly American influence. Agents trained in the United States had a terrible tendency to shoot first and attempt questions if they managed to leave any survivors. Her new partner, the man who had brought her into the fold, was not an exception to that particular tendency. Natasha settled herself on the windowsill, casually draping her leg in the path of Clint Barton’s scope.

“You mean to tell me,” she began, arching one perfect eyebrow in the other agent’s direction, “that your plan is shoot our target with a tranquilizer dart while they sit at a cafe in broad daylight, slip down to kidnap him from this crowded cafe without anyone the wiser, and then beat him until he gives you the information.”

Barton pushed back from his position at the rifle and returned her stare. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and shook his head at her. “It’s not like we have another option.”

“You’re hilarious,” she barked on a laugh. “You’d have a lot to gain by picking up a little subtlety.” She glanced over her shoulder to the outdoor seating at the cafe across the street, taking in the attire of the patrons with a calculating eye. “Give me twenty minutes with the target. You can watch through your little spyglass, and if I can’t get them to agree to go with me to a secondary location in that time frame we’ll do it your way.”

“It’s never going to work,” Barton told her, his face smug. “You have no documents, no leverage.”

She leaned close to Clint’s face and tapped the tip of his nose with one finger. “You don’t need any of those so long as you have the right equipment and you know how to use it.”

She pushed herself out of the windowsill and made her way over to her bag. She only had one change of clothes that might work with their mark. He was a fairly conservative businessman, the type that wanted his women to look like a saint and keep all their decidedly not-saint-like predilections reserved for his use in private. She shook out a floral sundress and neutral cardigan, tugging her long red curls free of the braid she’d used to contain them. Barton watched her with a mix of interest and disbelief while she changed and called a little inn around the corner to reserve a room.

“What exactly is it that you think you’re going to use that I don’t have?” he asked with amusement while she slipped on a nude pair of heels and tugged an oversized purse onto her shoulder. “Truth serum in the tea? Magic Russian fairy dust?”

“Just a little something you’ve obviously never been blessed with.” Natasha threw him a saucy wink from the doorway and struck a pose. “Tits and ass.”

By the time their target settled himself at one of the outdoor tables Natasha was already in position at the end of the block. She’d taken back alleys to the inn to pick up her key, grateful that the innkeeper was polite enough to to ask questions. She waited for Clint to confirm that the mark had been seated, then sauntered down the sidewalk. She kept her eyes low, her demeanor demure, but she put a little extra sway into every step. She knew she had his eye when she took her own seat a few tables away. She feigned interest in a worn paperback she pulled from her purse, careful to let the man catch her giving him shy glances every few moments. 

At six minutes and forty-three seconds he politely asked her to join him. At eight minutes and twelve seconds she surreptitiously slid her foot up the length of his calf and into his lap. Just after nine minutes he flagged down the waitress to settle both of their tabs. He paid cash, and just before the twelve minute mark they were making their way out of the cafe and back the way she’d come. All the while Barton made incredulous remarks in her ear, a running commentary of jokes and lewd comments. She left the earbud in throughout the night, sure to tilt her head just right so it would pick up and record every bit of information that whispered past the target’s lips.

At nine o’clock the next morning she opened the door to Clint Barton’s annoyed face and stood aside to let him in. He shook his head at her while he stepped into the room and sat down at the table the mark had vacated not ten minutes prior. He made himself a sandwich from toast and some sausages that were still on the room service tray, crossed one leg over his knee, and fixed her with a long-suffering stare. She smiled like the cat who got the canary.

“Told ya.”


	3. In Vino Veritas

The heavily reinforced room in the basement of Stark Tower had not been designed to hold a misbehaving Norse god. It appeared to have been designed to keep in something a great deal more powerful, though Tony Stark was deliberately dismissive of the subject. The prevailing theory was that he’d been planning to court Dr. Banner to join his R&D ‘candyland’ for quite a while and, given his particular brand of genius, had managed to create something beyond S.H.I.E.L.D.’s dizziest daydreams to reassure the good doctor that his contentious other half wouldn’t wreck New York City. Again. Whatever the reasoning, it was certainly proving to be a useful holding cell for Loki while Thor helped Stark fashion cuffs and a muzzle to hold him on their journey and a device to harness the Tesseract to get them both back to Asgard.

Natasha watched Thor’s angry younger brother on a holoscreen, pondering her options. It was clear that Loki hadn’t acted entirely on his own. He’d come with an army, and he’d come intending to conquer. Somewhere in the dark of the universe, someone or something had thrown a lot of weight behind the former prince of Asgard, and they’d done it with the intention of bringing Earth to heel. Thor and the others were only thinking of repercussions in the immediate, but Natasha knew better. If someone with an army like the Chitauri came for Earth once, they’d be back to do it again. They needed intel, and the only person to get it from was the crazy god of mischief sitting in Stark’s very secure little room. She had to be careful. Standard tricks weren’t going to be the ones that worked with him.

Loki fixed sharp, cat-like eyes on her the moment she stepped through the door into an antechamber that connected to his ‘cell.’ The chamber served as some kind of decontamination unit or airlock with only one side able to open at a time. It was a little extra reassurance that he couldn’t pull the same kind of thing he had on the helicarrier with his illusions. While he watched through the triple-paned window she was pretty sure was only pretending to be glass, Natasha carefully uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured its entire contents into a silicone pitcher. That done, she set the pitcher down against one wall of the antechamber and tossed the bottle through the open door back the way she’d come. Next, she set two stemless silicone wine glasses beside the pitcher, tossing their packaging through the door as well.

“Well, this is interesting.” Loki’s voice was faint and modulated through the speakers. He’d moved to stand directly in front of the window, clearly trying to get a better view.

“I thought you were expecting me to come as a balm,” she quipped, stepping on the heel of each of her boots in turn to tug her feet free. She kicked them out the door while his brows knit together.

“I’m fairly certain I said that I was expecting you as a balm after torture for information.” He spread his hands, displaying just how little of a threat he was in his temporary prison. At Thor’s insistence he’d been made to strip and don a pair of plain sweats and a t-shirt. Something about knives and a trick with a snake when they were children. There had been a truly impressive number of knives hidden under all the green and gold, but none of them had made it to the cell with him. “As you can see, I have nothing left.”

“Well, it could be that I have other motives,” Natasha insisted, reaching for the zipper on her suit. She tilted her head toward the pitcher and glasses she’d set to the side, but his eyes followed the zipper rather than her gaze as she slowly dragged it down the length of her body. It took a little wiggling to push the catsuit down to her ankles, but she managed it with grace and never took her eyes off the Asgardian. “You did say you wanted a drink.”

Loki’s adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed in a way that might have been a little bit nervous. In spite of her earlier misgivings she filed away that Asgardians were capable of the same reactions as human when faced with certain aspects of her charm. “I did say something to that effect, didn’t I?”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha kicked the catsuit after her shoes. “JARVIS, do me a favor and close the outer door,” she commanded. It whooshed shut behind her. She grabbed the glasses in one hand and the pitcher in the other, then called for the inner door to open and stepped through. She handed one glass to Loki and kept the other for herself, filling them each from the pitcher. Loki didn’t stay quiet for long.

“Is your lack of clothing supposed to put me off balance?” he asked as he brought the cup to his lips. 

“That depends.” She stepped away from him long enough to place the pitcher on the floor against the wall, taking a sip from her own glass as she stood to face him once more. “Is it working?”

“Off balance is not the phrase I would use.” The next glance he gave her was more appraising than anything she’d seen from him before. A cocky, self-assured smirk crossed his face. He leaned down to place his glass on the floor, then took hers to do the same. His hands drifted to her hips, and Natasha fought not to shiver at the chill in his touch. “I simply didn’t expect you to be so gentle, Agent Romanov.”

“Gentle is relative,” she murmured, reaching behind her back to retrieve something she’d tucked beneath the strap of her bra. She raised her hand to eye level, letting the coil of silken rope unfurl between them. Loki followed its movement as the strand wound down to dangle past the line of her hips.

“Is that supposed to hold me, Agent Romanov?” he scoffed.

“That depends.” She stepped into the circle of his arms, pressing herself fully against him. She dragged her teeth over his earlobe, tugging gently before she spoke again. “I expected you’d rather be the one tying the knots.”

From his sharp inhale of breath Natasha knew she’d made the right choice. By the time she left the cell—hours later when he’d fallen asleep—she had several new bruises, a little rope burn at her wrists, and the name of a galactic megalomaniac with a very nasty plan of action.


	4. Lumière de Bougie

Something wasn’t right at S.H.I.E.L.D., and not just the kind of not right where somebody was about to get fired for not doing their job properly. It was the type of not right that had Fury calling her in for clandestine meetings in shitty dive bars and hinting at the name of an agency that was supposed to have ended when Rogers downed a plane in the Arctic Circle. It was wrong enough that Natasha had agreed to dip back into a bag of tricks she’d thought she left behind when she joined S.H.I.E.L.D. She could be convinced to do just about anything with the right prompting, but there were a lot of things S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t ask her to do.

Like, for instance, travelling to Algeria to negotiate with a dangerous mercenary about hijacking a S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence vessel.

Georges Batroc was, at least, more attractive than most of the men she dealt with in her professional endeavors. The spy game tended to involve a lot of older bureaucrats looking to get a hand on her ass and waste about fifteen minutes of her night after several hours of dancing around the matter at hand. Batroc was built like a truck, ruggedly handsome in that soldier of fortune kind of way, and charming to boot. For once, she didn’t think she was going to hate the direction her night was going. They were sitting on the outdoor patio of a restaurant in Algiers. The night was humid, giving their surroundings an almost hazy feel. The restaurant owner seemed to know Batroc, and he’d made sure their table was as private as it could be given the public location. They were in a corner of the patio between a tree and the ornate iron fencing that enclosed the space. The strings of light bulbs that criss-crossed over most of the patio had fewer bulbs near their seats, leaving them lit mostly by the small group of candles in the middle of their table.

“And why would the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. want to hijack his own ship?” he asked quietly as he poured a very nice rosé into her glass. She’d watched the sommelier open it fresh, something it seemed that Batroc assured would happen in front of all of his dinner companions.

Natasha accepted the glass with a gracious nod and raised it to her lips for a sip before she answered him. “Why would a mercenary care about the reasoning?”

“Making conversation.” He smiled at her over the rim of his own wine glass. “Is that not something you do where you’re from?”

“You haven’t met many Russians, have you?”

He laughed. “More than I can count. Although, now that I think about it not many of them were very good conversationalists.” He regarded her for a long moment, swirling the wine about in his glass. She’d seen that look a thousand times. He was sizing her up, trying to decide where the danger lay. Whatever he saw made him smirk. “Indulge me: why send you?”

“I wasn’t read into the decision.” She knew why he’d sent her. This was a dirty move, one that a lot of agents would balk at. More importantly, though, Fury knew she’d use whatever means necessary to secure the outcome he wanted. “He must think I’m convincing.”

“This dissembling,” Batroc began, “it works on most of your marks. You dodge their questions with little quips and it makes them think you are mysterious.” If he was offended that she was treating him like any other mark he didn’t show it. “Do you ever get to enjoy an evening without it all?”

Surprisingly, she found that she didn’t want to lie. “Well, evenings like that are few and far between in our line of work.”

“They are at that.” Their conversation fell away as a tray of stuffed dates and another bottle of wine were delivered to their table. Batroc leaned back to consider her while the wine was uncorked and placed in a bucket of ice beside the bottle they’d already opened. He spoke as soon as they were alone again. “Let’s not waste time pretending that either of us believe I’m not going to accept this offer.” He refilled both of their glasses as he talked. “You knew before we even sat down that would be the case.”

“You’re not wrong,” Natasha admitted. She was pretty sure she knew where he was going. If Fury was right and everything at S.H.I.E.L.D. ended up imploding in the next couple of weeks it might not be a bad idea for her to have a dangerous mercenary looking at her favorably.

“In that case, I would like to offer a proposal.” He leaned one elbow on the table, plucked a date from the tray, and held it across the table for her. She leaned forward to take it between her teeth, letting her lips just barely meet his fingertips while he pulled away. “As we have already agreed, pleasurable evenings are unfortunately rare. I propose we discuss the details over breakfast. You cantell your superiors it took all night to convince me. This helps me keep my reputation as a man who drives a hard bargain and gives you more reputation as the woman who can succeed at even the most difficult of negotiations.” 

Natasha swallowed her mouthful of date and raised her glass for another sip of wine. “Well, you do seem to be uncooperative,” she told him with a smirk. “I guess I’ll just have to let you wine and dine me until we reach a deal.”

“Promise me something, ma petite araignée,” he insisted with an incredulous laugh. “Some evening when you are not working so hard, indulge in some pleasures of your own choosing instead of those that happen to be convenient.”


	5. We Have a History

There were a lot of things Natasha had learned about seduction over the years. Less is always more. It’s easier to sell the ideas your mark comes up with than your own narrative. You either have them with a glance or you’ll never nail them down. Most women require a certain level of finesse, and older women require even more. And the most important lesson: Sometimes it isn’t about doing the seducing on the mission. Sometimes it’s more important who you’ve seduced in the past.

She was relying hard on that most important lesson as she set off to do her part in the plan to take down Project Insight and S.H.I.E.L.D. Though the number of people she had history with was certainly not small, the number she had history with who didn’t hate her absolutely was. Luckily, the target she’d chosen for this particular endeavor was one of the few on that much smaller list. It was easy enough to slip into the back of the limousine while the HYDRA agents there as escort were distracted. Airports were just busy and bustling enough to provide a solid distraction. The trick was the waiting. While she crouched in the shadow of the limo’s interior she ruminated over the history she was banking on exploiting.

Councilwoman Hawley was a ruthless and severe woman at the best of times. They’d never met in person until after the Battle of New York. All Natasha had known of the woman when they met was that she’d been one of the people who supported wiping Manhattan off the map rather than waiting to see if the Avengers could manage to quell the alien invasion on their own. Truthfully, they had not started out on the best possible footing.

It had been a surprise when they met at a gala in London and the woman turned out to be secretly quite funny. Natasha wasn’t there for her. Her mark was a member of parliament who knew some particularly useful state secrets, but it turned out that the mark was more than willing to talk about them without any more prodding than could be done with a few glasses of sherry. Natasha was getting ready to make her exist when a cultured voice called her name—her real name. The councilwoman was dressed in an immaculately pressed black sheath gown and numerous strands of pearls at her throat. Compared to the suit wearing figure she’d seen in files that Fury had shared with her it was a stunning change. The memory of that dress, from the way it fit to the way it slithered into a puddle on the hotel carpet, brought a smile to her face.

She was startled from her memories when the door of the limousine opened and the object of her thoughts climbed onto the seat. The older woman spotted her immediately, calculating eyes darting over her face before she turned to address the agents outside.

“You can ride in the entourage,” she commanded primly. “It was an eight hour flight from London. I’d rather have some time for peace with my own thoughts before we get to the Triskelion.” It sounded for a moment as though the agent was going to argue, but then there were whispers of hushed conversation and the door clicked closed. The councilwoman stared at Natasha and she stared back until the vehicle began to move. “Your face is on all the news stations, it seems.”

Natasha shrugged. “I can’t help that I’m so popular.”

“Something’s gone awry, hasn’t it?”

With a deep breath, Natasha opened her mouth and let the whole story spill forth. She reigned in the details as much as she could, trying not to embellish as she might when debriefing with Clint or Steve. The councilwoman preferred direct, no frills information to dramatic storytelling. She left out the extent of her involvement in the incident with the Lumerian Star but didn’t bother hiding that the resulting intel had lead to the discovery of Zola and the growth of HYDRA within S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. Finally, she explained that all of Project Insight had been co-opted to destroy anyone who might pose a threat to HYDRA’s regime. Councilwoman Hawley listened to it all with rapt attention as they wove through the extensive D.C. traffic, her lips pursed.

“What is it that you want me to do, Natasha?” she asked bluntly when the Black Widow had finished. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Natasha answered with a smile. She put every bit of affection and sincerity she could manage into her face and voice. Hawley was not likely to be understanding of the fact that she was leaving out their intentions to take down S.H.I.E.L.D. alongside HYDRA’s plans. When it was finished, this bridge would be burnt to a crisp, so she needed to milk it while she could. “In order for our plan to work, all I need you to do is let me take your place.”


	6. Pleasures of My Own Choosing

Sam’s house was dark by the time he and Steve pulled into the drive. They’d had a busy day. Steve had been discharged from the hospital that morning, healed enough from the injuries at the Triskelion— injuries the doctors insisted should have killed him—to get out and about. Most of the morning and early afternoon was spent retrieving what few belongings Steve wanted to keep out of his DC apartment. Not only had the place been seriously compromised, but it was pretty much destroyed. Then they’d gone to Fury’s “funeral”. There were so many options laid out in front of them, but for the moment both men were just excited at the prospect of spending a quiet couple of days somewhere that wasn’t exploding or under the radar. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, man,” Sam began, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck while Steve lifted his duffle from the back of the rental car, “but I am ready to not be on your kind of schedule for a day or two.”

Steve snorted. “As long as you don’t go getting used to the quiet life. You chose the big hero path. No real going back now.”

“I’m starting to think I didn’t think this through.” Shaking his head, Sam fumbled through his keys until he found the one for the front door. “How do you think this is going to go now?”

“I can think of dozens of possibilities,” Steve admitted. “Honestly, I’m kind of surprised that Stark hasn’t already shown up in some fancy jet asking why we didn’t call.”

“I am never going to get used to your casual name dropping.” Fitting the key in the lock, Sam opened the front door and reached for the light switch. “After we sleep for a solid eight hours we’re gonna have a chat about your billionaire connec—” 

“Hey, fellas.”

Both of them froze, startled both by the voice and by the sight that greeted them when the light came on. Steve could actually feel his brain stuttering to a halt. Sam’s keys hit the floor at the same time his jaw dropped. Natasha Romanov was settled dead in the center of Sam’s plush living room sofa. Her red hair wasn’t quite as straight as she’d kept it for all their recent interactions, a bit of its natural curl kinking it up in places. Her finger and toenails were painted a bright, royal blue and they could see from the doorway that there were dots of red and white in the blue.

Oh, and she was completely naked.

“You know, it was the strangest thing,” she began, bouncing her foot where one leg was crossed over the other. “I was at my safehouse gathering up my assets for this whole figuring stuff out journey, and I realized I’d completely forgotten something really important.”

The first to recover, Steve gave Sam a shove in the back just hard enough to propel him further into the room. He followed and shut the door behind them, turning the lock without conscious thought. “Not like you to forget important things, Natasha.” He nudged Sam again.

“Uh, yeah,” the other man agreed, snapping his jaw shut. “Important stuff. What did you forget?”

“I made this promise a couple of weeks back.” Slowly, deliberately, Natasha uncrossed her legs. She stretched her feet as far to either side as she could, flexing her toes in the carpet. “I said that when I had the chance for an evening where I don’t have to pretend to be anyone but me that I’d take a chance to enjoy some pleasures of my choosing.” She drew one hand down the side of her neck, trailing it down between her breasts and continuing toward her stomach. “What do you say, fellas?” She gave them a sultry, sincere smile. “Wanna start with tonight and see how long we can keep it up?”


End file.
